“I wouldn’t advise it.” The captain jumps in. “The accommodations are fine, for them that can afford it, but all the paddlers are overbooked and crowded.”

“But the cabins are nice?” Mrs. Joyner asks.

“Some of them, yes. Another word of warning: Lots of gambling takes place on those boats. If you go for a ride, hold on to your coin purses.”

Mr. Joyner brightens at “gambling,” but when he sees everyone staring at him, he frowns again. He takes a puff on his cigar and says, “I’ve read about this. It’s a swindle. They take you all the way up the Missouri, but in the end you have to walk south again to get back on track. We’re better off putting ashore here.”

Mrs. Joyner stares at him.

He hastily adds, “We’ll place our trust in my original plan. I see no reason to change our course before we’ve even reached the starting line. No, we’ll head overland for Independence as intended.” He gazes after the steamboat, though, his mustache twitching.

As we cross, the rising suns burns through the last of the gauzy clouds, finally revealing the far shore. The water between here and there is busier than the busiest town. I count three more steamboats, with smoke from still more rising around the river bend. We steer among flatboats—too many to count—and tiny rowboats that are clustered like gnats between them. We even pass a tiny raft containing two boys with straw hats and fishing poles.

As we approach the mud-churned riverbank, Captain Chisholm leans over and says, “You’ll want to go north along the river until you reach Cape Girardeau. You can go west from there, but the most popular route is to continue north to St. Louis and then head westerly.”

I picture it like Free Jim’s map and try to memorize it, but I’m not sure it will do any good. The Mississippi River is so much broader and murkier than the twisting blue line I saw. Turns out, the great wide world doesn’t look anything like a flat little map.

I reach under my shirt and grab the locket, but instead of thinking of Mama like I usually do, Jefferson springs to mind, and it’s a punch to the gut how quick and easy and clear I imagine those keen dark eyes and that wide, serious mouth. I wish I could poke at his quiet ways and get a quick grin out of him, just like always. Tell him about my journey so far and hear about his.

Ask what exactly he meant by that mealymouthed proposal. Marrying for the sake of traveling convenience seemed like a fool-headed notion at the time, but now I can’t get it out of my mind.

Trust someone, Mama said. Not good to be as alone as we’ve been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .

Floating down the river has given me plenty of time to ponder, and I’m not sure Mama was right. I wouldn’t be in this heap of hurt if Daddy hadn’t been so trusting. Still, I can’t help thinking about Jefferson and about how, in California, we could start all over; maybe even build up something great.

What if Jefferson didn’t make it? What if he’s not waiting for me in Independence after all? Suddenly, it feels as though I’m falling into a mining pit, with no gold and nothing at the bottom but dark forever.

By midday my back and shoulders ache from unloading the Joyners’ wagon and furniture. The wagon must be reassembled and reloaded, but Captain Chisholm’s contract with them has officially ended, and Mr. Joyner plans to hire respectable workers to help with the journey to Independence. In the meantime, Fiddle Joe calls out from the roof of the boat: “Victuals is ready, for them that’s hungry.”

My stomach rumbles as I soak my kerchief in the river and wash up. Joe has made a chowder from a big catfish he caught this morning, mixed with salt pork and onions. Beside the pot of chowder is a steaming cornmeal cake. Thank the stars Mrs. Joyner didn’t bake it, or it would be burned to a crisp.

We crewmen grab our bowls and run to be served. Mrs. Joyner retrieves a checkerboard tablecloth from a trunk and spreads it out over a walnut table with shiny polish. It’s an odd sight, all that fancy furniture sitting on the riverbank, surrounded by mud and grass, water and trees. People stare as they pass, but Mrs. Joyner goes about smoothing that cloth just so and setting a perfect table like she’s preparing for Sunday after-church visitors.

I sit on the edge of the flatboat’s roof and dangle my feet, watching the Joyners eat their formal meal together. That’s what civilization looks like out west, I suppose. Like a round peg in a square hole. As I use the cornbread to soak up the chowder, I find myself itching to put all that furniture away and out of sight.

“You sure you don’t want to travel down river and see New Orleans?” Captain Chisholm says at my shoulder.

I jump. “No, sir, I’m set on heading west.” If he could find gold the way I can, he’d head west too. Anyone would.

“Thought as much.” He reaches out to shake my hand, and presses some coins into my palm. “Here’s wishing you luck along the way.”

Before I can force out a thanks, I notice Joe packing leftover cornmeal cake into my saddlebag. “It’s going to go bad with no one here to eat it,” he says.

“Please stay,” Red Jack says. “But only so I don’t get demoted back to unskilled labor.”

“We emptied the whole boat,” I protest. “There’re no more stalls to muck. You’ll sleep in every morning like the lazy cat you are.”

He frowns at me, just like he did that first day, but now I know he means it kindly.

That’s about all the good-byes I can take, so I pull my hat brim low to hide my watery eyes and head ashore. Peony paws the ground, itching to stretch her legs, but I hang around, pretending to check my gear while Mr. Joyner haggles with some longshoremen about pay.

“Need help loading everything?” I ask Mr. Joyner.

“I’m not paying you,” he says.

“I didn’t ask for pay.”

He hesitates, but he nods. “I’d be much obliged.”

As I heft a trunk toward the wagon, he says, “You might as well go north with us, at least as far as Cape Girardeau.”

My relief is short-lived. Mrs. Joyner, who sits on the wagon bench, jumps in with, “Now, darling, don’t impose yourself on the lad. I’m certain he has plans of his own.”

I angrily heave the trunk over the side, and it lands with a too-loud clunk.

“There’s only one direction to go,” Mr. Joyner says, “and the lad might as well travel with us. It’s too late to send him scouting ahead, and there’s no point in making him wait behind when he’s traveling light—he’ll simply overtake us. He can help load and carry, and I don’t even have to pay him.”

“That’s fine by me,” I’m quick to add. It’s not fine. It’s highway robbery, is what it is. But it’s also better than being alone.

Mrs. Joyner folds her hands into her lap and frowns.

We wait while Mr. Joyner hires two men who are relatively clean and able to provide references. Even so, we’re another hour getting all the furniture loaded. Mr. Joyner climbs onto the bench, snaps the reins over the oxen, and the wagon lurches forward. Peony and I follow, Coney running circles at her heels.

We glimpse the Mississippi River through breaks in the trees as we ride along. I keep Peony behind the wagon and out of Mrs. Joyner’s sights, which ensures that I inhale buckets of dirt and mud flecks. Andy and Olive peek at me through the bonnet, their cherub faces jerking up and down with each rut in the road.